


This is How We Do It, Baby

by poisontaster



Series: Transmutation [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Developing Relationship, Multi, Polyamory, Sam Has Powers, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-09-05
Updated: 2006-09-05
Packaged: 2018-04-28 10:30:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,055
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5087293
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/poisontaster/pseuds/poisontaster
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the same universe as Mona1347's Transmutation. The demon attack left Jess badly burned, but Dean and Sam saved her. Now it's the three of them, figuring out how the future is going to go.</p>
            </blockquote>





	This is How We Do It, Baby

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Deutsch available: [So machen wir es, Baby [Übersetzung]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12534280) by [what a drag (inuverse)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/inuverse/pseuds/what%20a%20drag)
  * Inspired by [Transmutation](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/152176) by mona1347. 



Jess is not crying and Sam is suturing, small patient stitches, and Dean is pacing trying _real hard_ not to put his fist through the wall because they can't leave while Jess is hurt and they can't afford a repair bill for the damage.

"Dean," Jess says through closed teeth. " _Dean._ It's fine. I'm fine. Ease down, all right? You're giving me a fucking headache."

Sam doesn't say anything, but he hardly does lately. Dean's starting to wonder if they've traded one ghost for another. There are no chairs left so he plunks down on the sagging edge of the bed—only one, only a queen, and a close fucking fit it's going to be—and clenches his hands together until the flesh aches and the bones creak.

The Silence falls, broken only by the hiss of breath and sutures through skin, but it's not calm or really quiet.

Finally, almost as soft as the wick of the needle through her skin, Jess says, "I'm sorry."

Dean shakes his head. "It's not your fault," he answers and even that little bit is hard to get out. He looks up. "I'm not angry with you, Jess. Never with you."

The pain shine of her eyes gets a little brighter and her breath hitches. She reaches out with one hand—the one with the burn weal across the knuckles like a kiss—and because it's _her_ , Dean reaches back. Their fingers link across the empty space and Sam closes his eyes and hides his face against the nape of Jess's neck, his arm slipping around the naked curve of her waist to cover their conjoined hands with his.

***

Sam dreams, crying out and thrashing and Dean and Jess press him into the mattress, soothing him back to wakefulness with their mouths and hands.

"West," Sam says, when he's all the way awake. "The mountains. Colorado, maybe?"

Jess winces and Dean winces with her. She's hurt and not ready. But they're all at the whim of Sam's wi-fi brain. They're both looking at her. Jess takes a breath and nods. "I'll load the car."

"The hell you will," Dean says gruffly, a tone of voice that alternately irritates her and makes her want to smile at him until his own smile—so unexpectedly sunny—comes out to play.

Sam only traces the curve of her hip with one hand, like he's memorizing its shape, while Dean's hand lingers in Sam's sweated out hair.

***

Dean drives, of course. Jess's is still doped up on Percocet and Sam's down with his usual post-vision migraine. It's fine. Dean doesn't really like either of them behind the wheel, even though he trusts them; the Impala is the last thing that he really feels is his. Everything else—father, brother, girl, gear, motel—is communal property and sometimes Dean just needs the reminder that he is an independent entity and not just the created amalgam of SamJessDean.

He doesn't know quite when she became _his_ girl as much as she's Sam's. Maybe in dozens of diners, where she'll plunk down next to him, elbow in his ribs and they'll gang up on Sam to make him eat? Or in a hundred motel lobbies where she'll casually sling an arm around his neck and shake her parti-colored hair back so the clerk will get a good long look at her scars and not look so hard at the credit card in his hand? The times where she'll sink onto his cock and moan his name in one breath and Sam's in the next, arching up like some terrible queen of fire and death, incoherent and beautiful in her orgasm?

SamJessDean. A new triangle, different and somehow stronger than the first. Maybe because all the legs are holding more or less equally for the first time in his life.

SamJessDean. He watches her in the rearview mirror—glittering dangerous eyes above soft, wide lips— kneads Sam's thigh lightly with one hand, Sam's cold fingers covering his, and drives.

***

Colorado is not the clusterfuck they anticipate, even with her wounded; the months of training, working together, living together, fucking together have had their effect. They move, act as one. Sam bruises a rib, Dean gets a concussion and her wound opens back up when she trips and falls on her ass but it's all right. It's good. They survive and the necromancer does not. All in a day's work.

They burn down the main house and cleanse the grounds. Dean declares that they're on hiatus until everyone's back up to par and they move into the necromancer's barn, slinging sleeping bags and pilfered blankets over scattered mounds of hay.

"Do you love him?" Sam asks her one night, after Dean's fallen asleep.

Her nipples are hard from the exploration of his hand and her shoulder aches. She's sleepy and maybe that's why she answers more sharply than she intends: "Don't you?"

This is the closest they've come to talking about it; to the day she came in and found him on his knees in front of Dean and everything she knew and suspected came together in one agonizing clash; to the day she welded herself to them forever in bonds of sweat and come and blood.

Sam flinches and she reaches out to touch him. "It's okay, Sam," she says. She tries to remember how to be gentle with him, knowing he is still so terribly scarred, even if it doesn't show. "I get it now. I love you. I love you both."

Sam's breath huffs out, but he doesn't say anything else and she realizes after a few moments he's sleeping, one enormous hand splayed out over her heart and the other curved over her head to touch Dean's bare, freckled shoulder.

Jess reaches between her legs and fingers herself until she comes in a soundless explosion of bright red sparks then snuggles deeper into her place between them and falls asleep herself.

***

He makes Sam spar against her because they're less likely to hurt each other than if it's him and her. He doesn't know if it's a good thing or a bad; it's just a fact. Protecting Sam comes as instinctive to her as it does to him and Dean thinks Sam would disembowel himself before he hurt Jess.

He watches them go at it, sluffing up the thin yellow dust of the barnyard, occasionally calling out a cutting remark to one or the other of them: "You gonna stop in the middle of combat to play with your hair, dammit?"

Finally, when it's over and Sam's at the trough sluicing water over his head and shoulders, Jess sidles over to Dean with that lithe razor-blade walk she's picked up ever since she hooked up with them.

"You can just chill out, you know," she says, sitting down at his side so their shoulders and their knees bump.

"What do you mean?" He ignores the way his cock jumps when her arm snakes around his back and she leans back on her palms.

"I mean I know you keep watching us. Keep waiting for me to…pull away or change my mind or to fuck you up the way Sam did when he left." He turns to look at her and she smiles at him, scar tissue making it crooked and ugly to any fool who can't see to the woman in front of them. She shakes her head. "I'm not Sam," she tells him. "I'm in this. Just me. Just Jess. And I know…" She hesitates and squints up into the sun, chewing on her lip before she decides to just come out with it. "I get that it's forever with you."

And suddenly his heart's beating too fast and too loud, almost drowning out her voice, except for the way he can hear every word, sinking like one of her little throwing knives right inside him, dead on target. Jess grabs a double handful of his tee and pushes him back into the ground, straddling his waist. "You're stuck with me, you fucking idiot." She bends to kiss his mouth roughly then straightens up again—still holding him down—and calls over her shoulder, "Sam! Get your lanky ass over here!"

Past her, Dean sees Sam turn and grin and he can't quite remember the last time he saw that.

***

She's practicing knife throws against an old and pitted fence post when Dean finds her. He's been quiet—well, underneath the endless natter of insults, goads and strange anecdotes about monsters he's seen and killed—and she's been kind of worried she'd gone too far, tackling him head-on like she had, even if that had been one _hell_ of a fuck, all of them laughing and being and finally starting to feel like a living entity.

But here he is.

She makes him wait, while she throws the last handful, stalks across to the post and pulls them all free. She cleans the wood dust off each of them over her trailing sleeves and slips them one by one back into the bandoliers. "What?"

He's got a box in his hands, plain cardboard and anonymous. "I figured it out a while ago," he says, "but I didn't know… I didn't know if you were ready. If you'd want to. But then…" Dean shrugs and does the little two-step he does when he's being thoughtful and doesn't like it. "I thought…maybe after… I thought, what the hell."

He shoves it into her hands, so hard it almost rocks her back a step. She peels back the flaps and he's already walking away, shoulders hunched. Once she thought that was anger; now she knows—it's just Dean.

Inside is black leather, sleek and shiny with the patina of _new_. Jess pulls it out and finds pants and a vest, all supple and smooth. She holds it up and she can already tell it's her size. She looks inside. It's lined, expensive silk that won't catch or chafe on her scars the way the raw leather would. There's no tag, just a cryptic maker's mark like a piece of Celtic knotwork, which means it's all custom. All for her. It will fit her like a second skin, leaving her arms free, keeping her from tripping over the trailing hems, flubbing her throws and shots.

 _It won't hide her scars._ The realization sends a frisson of cold through her, both thrilling and terrifying. It's one thing to freak-show it for the motel flunkies. This…this is something else. This is full disclosure of _exactly_ how damaged she is. That…she doesn't know if she's ready for that.

But Dean thinks she is.

It's strange seeing herself through their eyes. Sometimes she feels like she's become their goddess, their totem; scourged by fire to become something more than human. Sometimes she feels more a woman than she ever has before—not under, not less than, just different. Dean growls about her panties hanging from the curtain rods and then buys (or steals) tampons for her before she thinks to ask. Half the time Sam seems afraid to touch her and other times he'll spread her open with tender fingers and fuck her on his tongue until she sobs and thrashes and cries and begs him to stop, begs him not to.

She is theirs, protected and loved, but they are hers too, like the goddess Diana with her hunting dogs.

And goddesses need not hide from anyone.

It _is_ an answer and one she wouldn't have come up with on her own, too used to the flowing linen and cotton to really think about what it all meant in terms of defense and attack.

"Dean!" She drops the box and runs after him, catches up to him halfway to the barn, and flings herself at him, wrapping her legs around his waist, her arms around his neck. He looks startled, he looks pleased, with a neutral in between as he struggles hard to look neither. His hands cup her ass and she wiggles against his palms.

"It's okay?" he asks and she realizes it's the first time she's ever heard him sound uncertain. About anything.

"We're okay," she answers, because with Dean it's never about what he's actually said. "We're better than okay. We're good."


End file.
